


why won't you show me something else?

by erintoknow



Series: Aria-Rough Drafts [3]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Coming Out, Ex-Boyfriends, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Identity Issues, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Addiction, Social Anxiety, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: It's been weeks? Months? since the night you showed up at Chelsea's apartment covered in someone else's blood. You're finally starting to feel better, and that's great and all, but it's left the door open for some terrifying questions, such as: "Who am I without someone to tell me what to do?" or "What gender am I, even?"
Series: Aria-Rough Drafts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604665
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. what a bunch of hypocrites tryin to change the world

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles from [[Less Teeth, More Tits by the Lunachicks]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuMWuuf1hns)
> 
> This is the OG version of several chapters of [[Your Weak Young Heart]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702838/)

“Mornin’ kiddo,” A woman with straight blond hair waves at you on the couch as she enters from the bedroom. She pauses at the kitchenette, peering at you. “You okay?”

It’s been months since that night in the ruins. No one has come after you, tried to take you back. It’s hard to believe. This is it. This is your chance. No more hidden agendas, or secret orders, or cold gloved hands strapping you down.

You rub at your eyes, wetting your hand. “I’m f–fine? I’m fine.” You shift your feet, push the blanket off to the other end of the couch. Something goes ‘thud!’ to the floor and you wince. Whoops, must have fallen asleep reading again. “I’m… feeling a lot better today.”

That gets the smile you were hoping for, relieved thoughts filtering back to you. “Great to hear, Chickadee.” Still don’t understand why this complete stranger is helping you. Treating you like a real person. You scratch at your arm, through the sleeve. Grateful for the questions Chelsea doesn’t ask.

For the longest time it was easy to divide the world into three kinds of people. Most were civilians. They didn’t matter. Sometimes you needed to make use of a civilian in the course of a larger goal. Fodder. But such sacrifices were to be avoided if at all possible.

There were the good guys. People like the doctors and the scientists that cared for you, the guards that watched over everything, and above them all your handlers keeping you on the proper path.

Then there were the bad guys. People like yourself. Who needed to be watched and kept in line so that innocent people weren’t hurt. It doesn’t feel great. Putting yourself in that category. But why else didn’t you go back? Didn’t turn yourself in? The thought makes you feel sick to your stomach. You can’t do it. You won’t go back, and if that makes you a bad person then so be it.

You don’t know where to put Chelsea. Watching her crack eggs into a skillet, humming along to a song on the radio. She knows you killed someone and explicitly didn’t turn you over. So she can’t be a good person. At the same time… she helped you. Asking for nothing in return. That’s not what bad people do, right? A civilian then? But that doesn’t feel right either.

So now there’s four kinds of people in the world. Civilians, Good guys, Bad guys, and Chelsea.

You should probably get going sooner rather than later. Back into the city. You’ve imposed on her for too long as it is, and if something ever happened to her because of you… Being here is dangerous for you both.

“–hello?”

You jerk your head up, did you really zone out there? Must not be at 100% yet. “S–sorry, what was that?”

“I said, do you like ketchup on your eggs?”

That’s another weird thing about Chelsea. She keeps asking you about food customizations. “I… s–sure??” You move a stack of library books out of the way, pick up the fallen book and add it to the top as you stand up. Stretching your arms up over your head, you ask, “Um… do– do you need any help?”

Chelsea looks at you, pleased, with a slight smile on her face you feel compelled to return. “Yeah, sure, can you set the table?”

* * *

Still feel a little unsteady on your legs, but a full breakfast helped. Chelsea’s loaned you some old clothes of hers and they don’t quite fit right. But that’s okay, baggy and loose better hide your shape and other characteristics you’d rather do without. Try not to think too hard about how you’re technically wearing women’s clothes.

What’s the big deal anyway? Chelsea seems to think you are one. But, you aren’t. Not really. Don’t really feel like arguing the point. The closest you got was literally the second time meeting her. Chickened out of it then.

Being referred to as such doesn’t… well, it’s not really ‘happy’ whatever that might mean. Don’t know what it is. Like pushing two like-ends of a magnetic together. Powerful but invisible, and absolutely _not_ what you’re supposed to be doing.

When Chelsea learned you were planning on going out, she insisted on giving you money to buy your own clothes. To make up for the bloody ones she burned what feels like a lifetime ago. Don’t like the idea of owing her even more so you managed to negotiate it down to a loan.

Don’t know how you’ll pay her back of course, but there’s bound to be something you can do. There was that repair shop you were moonlighting at before everything turned sour. Maybe Mr. Lee would still be willing to give ‘Melissa’ some work. Who knows; maybe the thousand dollars you’d saved up months ago was still stashed away at you old haunt? Put that on the to-do list to check today.

But first: clothes. Up to now you’ve just been stealing them. It’s not even hard. Get a bag or a cart, nudge the right people to look the other way… basic infiltration, you’ve done it a dozen times.

It’s an hour of aimless wondering through the city streets before you work up the nerve to duck into a small second-hand shop. The door is propped open with an optimistically happy plastic snowman, sodium yellow lighting via unadorned lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling. A bored looking cashier, drumming her fingers on the counter watching you step in without acknowledgement. Fine with you.

It’s not a big building, but it’s large enough, a box with the one street-facing window a scattered handful of heads poking out over a forest of mobile clothing trees. An employee in the far corner is folding pants out of a pile. Don’t pay her any mind. Don’t pay anyone here any mind. Focus on the mission. Damn, your arm itches.

“Can I help you, miss? – oh, I’m so sorry, I meant sir!” You lift your head to look at the employee that had approached you, a pair of jeans still draped across one arm. Had been hoping she wouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” you wave the ‘offense’ away with a forced smile. “I get that a lot.” You glance back at the rack of assorted shirts. “I–I’m good, thank you.” It’s a relief to have her move on. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about people looking at you. Idle thoughts, not even yet heard but imagined in anticipation. Bracing yourself?

Have to be ready. What if someone notices something amiss? Takes cause to press things further? It’s not safe – you’re not safe. And you’re not safe because who are you even supposed to be now? There’s no handler, no mission, no cover story, no profile.

It’s just you.

Who are you?

You’ll have to come up with a name, you suppose. Real people have names, not numbers. ‘Alex’ works for the present, maybe, but it doesn’t really feel like _your_ name. But for now –

It’s you, Alex, combing through the men’s clearance section of a second-hand clothing store. But why the men’s? Not playing a role anymore, you can wear whatever you want. It’s fine, really. Who cares? Nobody, that’s who. Nobody cares. Nobody pays any mind to you slowly wandering over to the women’s section.

These clothes are at least actually interesting, even if so much is too dangerous to wear. No matter what you go with, certain things have to stay covered at all times. It’s a small thing though, a thrumming in your chest. The feeling itself a little alarming in its newness, keeping you on edge.

You don’t have much to work with if you’re really going to make an honest purchase, but with some careful combing it’s enough to put together two outfits. Who knew clothing could weigh so heavy on the arm?

It’s a guess for the size – no way are you going to risk a changing room, better to err in favor of a size too large – so then it’s to the cashier. A bored looking woman in her twenties with dyed purple hair and who thinks of you hardly at all as she rings everything up. Accepts your money without comment, and then – you’ve done it.

It’s like the first time you went out and bought your own food all over again; this was hardly difficult at all. Just your own fear. Of what? What’s to be scared of? Honestly. Everything was fine. You won. Make your exit, plastic bag around your wrist, hands in your pockets. It’s almost like you’re a real person. One more nameless face in the crowd.

There’s the occasional idle thought you can pick up, observing you. Each one a pinprick in your confidence, but – civilians don’t matter right? It’s a non-issue, who cares? If you didn’t get dragged back to hell after _that_ night, it’s not going to happen because some random nobody thought they saw a weird person on the street, right? Be reasonable.

It’s fine. Who cares what anyone thinks. It’s fine. What are they thinking, anyway? It’s nothing. Nothing at all to do with you. The man walking down the street in front of you is pre-occupied with his daughter’s concert recital. The woman behind you is entertaining a petty revenge fantasy about her boss. A group of young boys are whispering to each other and giggling, peering at the display window of a lingerie boutique, anxious self-absorbed worries buzzing in their heads.

An older man in a leather jacket brushes past you, power-walking in the opposite direction, barely even registering you existence. See? Fine. You’ve been here for months and nothing about the city has changed just because you bought a different type of clothing. You as invisible and nondescript and _safe_ as ever and everything is fine and no one is watching you as you stand at the crosswalk waiting for the light to turn.

No one except for someone twenty feet away behind you and closing in. Staring at your back. Trying to catch before the light turns but focused on you. It’s enough to make your heart race. Directive? Nothing in their thoughts gives that away, but then a Farm trained agent would be better than that anyway. If you break into a run, you’ll only draw suspicion to yourself. So – don’t turn around. Don’t acknowledge. Watch the flashing cross-walk lights, listen to the chirping of the audible signal. Cars rumbling by, makes and models you never had a chance to learn. Someone spat a wad of gum to the sidewalk once, stuck a penny in it. Now it’s flattened out and covered in grime.

The person moves to stand beside you, waiting for the light to change. Light can’t change fast enough. Stare straight ahead but can catch him glancing at you from the edge of your vision. Can try to telepathically nudge him to look away, but his curiosity proves stronger. Trying to figure you out.

When he reaches a conclusion, you can hear him snicker under his breath. Is it a mercy he doesn’t say what he’s thinking? You hug your arms, scratching at the skin through the sleeve.

The light finally changes and you can’t cross the street quickly enough. Any previous thoughts of maybe trying to return to where you had been squatting before you started staying with Chelsea are out of the question now. You need to get off the street now – somewhere you already know is safe.

* * *

As soon as you’ve closed the door to Chelsea’s apartment it’s like something heavy hits you in the chest. Why? Why are you being like this? Chelsea looks up at you with surprise from the kitchen table, surprise that turns to concern in both her thoughts and face. There’s an itch in your arm, a pang of nostalgia for the days when you had chemicals to take care of the stress for you.

Chelsea says something, but the words don’t register. You push past her, clutching your head, collapse on the couch, knocking over the pile of library books, mumbled words slipping out of your mouth like a leaky faucet. “I c–can’t– I can’t– I–I–I c–can’t–” The couch shifts under you as Chelsea sits down at the other end. Need to get it together. Can’t be weak like this. Practice your breathing, focus on the music playing over the radio, something, _anything_ but what had just happened. “I–I–I’m never g–going outside again…”

“Hey…” Chelsea’s voice is quiet – wants to touch but holds back thank god. “You’re going to be okay. I don’t know what they said to you, but don’t pay assholes like that any mind at all.”

Not said, _thought_. Flickering eyes, looking, judging – thought you were well enough already to go out on your own, thought you were brave enough to dress as a woman – thought you were strong enough after everything you’ve been through. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Find the pillow, press it over your head, as you curl up wishing you could disappear. “I look like a– like a f–f–freak! Why d–didn’t you say anything!?”

“Hey.” Her voice is stern now, and a hand finds your arm. You yank it away, curl up on yourself, clutching the pillow to your chest. A childish indulgence. Bizarre, you’re better than this. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through this. You can do it, I know it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, try to focus on the music, drown out the ocean of thoughts buzzing around the edge of your awareness, try to drown out your own anxiety replaying the day over and over. “I d–don’t want to–to–to be a guy…”

“Well then, good news.” You glance up at her and she gives you a smile. “You aren’t.”

You groan into your knees, “It–it’s not that simple.”

“Well, nothing in life is Chickadee. Can’t let that stop us.”

You don’t respond to that. She doesn’t get it. She can’t get it. You can’t just… ‘decide’ you’re something else. That’s crazy. You play the role you’re assigned and you do it flawlessly or suffer the consequences.

Next to you, Chelsea sighs, picks up one of the books that’s gone sliding across the coffee table. “ _Neuroscience For Dummies_ …?” Can hear the skepticism in her voice as she puts it down and shuffles through the rest. “ _The Future of the Brain, The… –_ oh boy – _Scientific American Book of The Brain_ …?” You can feel her eyes on you. “You know I hadn’t looked at what you’ve been reading before. This is uh… some complicated looking stuff.”

“I’m just… interested?” It’s not technically a lie but there’s still a pang of guilt there. “I… I d–d–don’t understand myself.” You admit, forcing the words out.

“And you think this will help?”

“I– I don’t know. Maybe?”

Chelsea flips open one book, skimming through the pages. “Well, you’re smarter than I am. This is all Greek to me.”

You shake your head, slowly unfolding yourself. “I–I–I don’t really get a lot of it either. But I– I’m learning.”

That gets an amused smile from her as she puts the book down, finishes tidying them back into a stack. “You can be a weird kid Alex.”

“S–sorry…”

“Hey, I’m a fan of weird.” You pick up some fragments on memory. Flashes of gaudy make-up and over-the-top outfits. When Chelsea sees you look at her she gives you a smile meant to reassure. “You don’t ever need to apologize for being yourself, okay?”

“I… I don’t know who th–that is.” You feel small as you say it.

“ You’re how old…? Can’t be over eighteen, right? You’ll figure it out.”

“Not a guy.” You rush out, before breaking into a fit of giggles, overcome with a sudden rush of nervous energy. “Definitely not that.”


	2. you can't wipe out all our progress with your little cotton ball

“What do you think of these?”

“I d–don’t know… they seem kind of t–tacky.”

“How can a fruit be tacky?”

You shake your head and shrug. “I–I don’t know. It just is.” Chelsea puts the Ugly Fruit back in the crate while you find yourself drawn to a stall full of nothing but strawberries. It’s a little embarrassing that you’ve lived in this neighborhood for months now and didn’t even realize there was a weekly open-air farmer’s market. But what were you going to do when Chelsea asked you along? Say no?

“Strawberries?” Chelsea asks from behind you, her face half in shade from the wide-brim of her sunhat. Her sleeveless dress makes for a comical comparison against your grey sweatshirt and pants.

“Mmhm.” How long has it been since you had a strawberry? Weren’t supposed to be eating on the job but you stole one anyway. Paid for it later but it had been worth it. Was that the first time too? It’s hard to remember.

Chelsea shifts the bags hanging from her wrist, rustling plastic and paper. “I’ve got enough left for a small basket if you want, but you’ll have to carry it.”

“Y–you sure?” You glance at her.

“Yeah,” Chelsea waves the question away. “Just promise me you’ll actually eat ‘em.” You find yourself smiling despite yourself. Shouldn’t be a hard promise to keep. While Chelsea talks to the stall owner, you comb through the baskets. Satisfied they’re all pretty much the same, you grab one and Chelsea pays the man.

Dipping into the man’s thoughts is weird, the way he assumes the two of you must be related somehow. A strange conclusion to reach: the two of you look nothing alike.

You don’t need to think about it. Doesn’t matter. Chelsea raises a handful of bags in your direction. “I think we made out pretty good today, praise the Lord. Let’s get going before we get any more over budget though.”

Nodding, you shove your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, strawberry basket awkwardly hanging from your wrist. You let Chelsea lead the way back home, focusing instead on practicing one of those radio songs Chelsea always has on in your head. It’s something to focus on that isn’t the swirling mass of thoughts around you.

Perhaps that’s why you walk straight into Chelsea, frozen in the middle of the street. “S–s–sorry!” You quickly step backward, why’d she stop? What’s the hold up?

“Christ.” Chelsea mutters under her breath. It’s almost a relief that her thoughts aren’t focused on you. Someone else? Chelsea makes a sharp right turn, gesturing you to follow. “Hey, uh, let’s take the scenic route, okay?”

“Are your okay?” What’s up with her? Who did she recognize? Is she in trouble? Are you?

Chelsea increases her pace as the two of you leave the market proper. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

You frown at that. “W–why are you lying?”

“It’s not lying,” Chelsea huffs, not looking back you. “It’s… aspirational truth-telling.”

This whole situation is making you nervous. You stop walking. “What’s going on?”

Chelsea walks a few more feet before conceding you aren’t following. “Look, it’s just–”

You pick up on the man power-walking your direction before he speaks. “Chris? Chris! That is you, isn’t it?” You turn to see who it is; a man with slicked-back black hair and aviator sunglasses, one hand in the pocket of a leather jacket, pink shirt underneath and jeans contrasting against black boots.

Chelsea sags, a tired expression on her face. “Shawn. Aren’t you supposed to be in Seattle?”

“And I thought you were supposed to be in San Francisco.”

You look back forth between the two. Should you just… leave?

“Nah man, nah. Damn, I’ve been tryin’ to find you for a dog’s age. How you been?” He puts his hand out for Chelsea to shake, not missing a beat when he’s left hanging. “It is still Chris right? Or…” He squints, “That’s pretty understated for you. Maybe it’s Chrissy now, eh?” He laughs, slapping a hand against his thigh.

The tension in Chelsea’s shoulders doesn’t dissipate. “It’s Chelsea, actually. Thanks for asking.”

That gets Shawn to pause. He tilts his head, making a face. “Wait, what? You serious? Damn man, I tried to warn you about that fucking–”

“Just shut up and tell me what you want, Shawn, we’re kind of busy here.”

Shawn catches your eye and you take a step back. He looks back at Chelsea, the smile gone. “Hey… He’s a little young for you, isn’t he?”

Okay, you officially don’t like this man now.

Chelsea steps between the two of you, shifting the bags on her arms to get one hand free. “ _She_ is none of your concern, now just tell me what you want.”

The warmth from Shawn’s stance dissipates. Don’t like how he’s kept one hand in his pocket this whole conversation. The feeling of tension present in his arm. “Alright then. Let’s talk. Follow me.”

You bite your cheek, hard enough to hurt. This is all wrong. “D–d–don’t go with him.”

“Alex,” Chelsea’s voice is even but strained. “Just head back without me. I’ll catch up later.”

Shawn doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes on Chelsea. “Listen to your friend, Alex.”

Both of them look at you and it’s enough to make you feel sick to your stomach. Who the heck is Shawn? How does he know Chelsea?

Chelsea gives you a warning look. “Be careful getting back, Alex.” Shawn beckons Chelsea to come with him, and the two turn their backs on you, headed west, down a different street.

Well fuck that.

You’re not about to abandon Chelsea after everything she’s done for you.

Being stealthy with a basket of strawberries isn’t the easiest task you’ve ever done, but you’ve been learning this part of the city. There’s a an alleyway that runs roughly parallel. As long as you stay tuned into their thoughts, you should be able to stay reasonably close.

You hesitate on passing by a fire escape. What about running along the rooftops instead? Keeping visual would be even better. It’s not a hard decision. Jump up and grab the bottom of the ladder with first one hand then the other. It’s a harder scramble up than you expected, first the ladder, then the wall. You’re not leaving the strawberries behind though damnit. Chelsea paid for those.

Rooftops was the right decision though. The whole block is flat-topped two story buildings, easy jumps. It takes a bit of running to catch up to where Chelsea is along the street below. For the first time in a long time you wish you had a gun on you. Damn, your arm itches.

You pop a strawberry in your mouth, it’s not chocolate but it’s sweet and better then nothing.

Hrm. Better hope they’re pre-washed.

Never mind that, focus on Chelsea and Shawn. You spit out the green top onto the roof. They’re both tense. A negotiation of some kind? Not about you, but you can feel your stomach churn anyway. Hopefully nobody ends up dead this time. That’d be ideal, thanks. Follow them down the block, jumping roofs onto a hardware store when they stop.

Shawn gestures to a bar across the street. Chelsea tries to refuse but ends up acceding. You watch them cross the street before clambering down from the roof into an alleyway. A strawberry topples out of your basket as it scraps against the brickwork during you descent, the band digging into your wrist.

It’s killing you just to leave the strawberry, but – more important things at hand right now. You drop the last couple feet to the ground, the shock of the impact running up through your ankles and knees with a wince.

No cars on the street so you just jay-walk it across.

Instead of going in the front door, you circle around the side of the building. Entering by back entrance should be less obvious. Or… maybe not necessary, you pull back as you hear voices around the corner.

“Seriously man, what’s with the kid and the domestic act? What happened to you man?”

“A lot can happen in five years Shawn.”

“Are you at least… happy like this?”

“Honestly…?” There’s a pause. “Yeah, yeah I think I’m happier now then I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Well. Alright then. I’m… happy for you man.”

He’s lying.

“What about you?” Chelsea’s voice hardens. “Did that suitcase make you happy?”

“Com’on, don’t be like that. Like you said, that was years ago.”

“You convinced me to steal from my boss and move across the country with you. You really think I can just forgive being dumped in an airport?”

“Water under the bridge, yeah? You were _just_ yapping about being way happier now, so you know, really, I was doing you a favor.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Yeah see, that’s the thing–”

“Let go of me right now Shawn.”

You tense up, how are you intervening in this? Putting down the basket of strawberries against the wall, you try to get a feel for Shawn’s presence again. Is he actually armed or were you just being paranoid?

“Don’t you miss me? Miss us?”

“I don’t love you anymore.”

“Okay.” There’s a pause. “Fine. But I don’t need you to love me, What I _need_ is your help with this, Chris – Chrissy, com’on, it’ll be like old times.”

“I already told you no.”

Okay, that’s enough.

“Man, you’re such a boring bitch now. Look why’re you–” Shawn stops in mid-sentence as you step around the corner. Shawn, despite being shorter, looms over Chelsea, holding her arms out to the sides with both hands. The two of them turn to look at you in a combination of alarm and interest.

Shawn recovers first, smirking. “Man, this one is sneaky. No wonder you like him.”

“Alex.” Chelsea’s voice is firm, unpleasantly cold. “Go home.”

You don’t move, keep your eyes on Shawn. “Let her– let her go.”

He arcs an eyebrow, “Wow, lookit that, you throw on a dress and you’ve already got a white knight lining up.” The way Shawn’s talking about Chelsea is making your stomach churn. Reminds you of being back home at the Farm. When the guards would get bored.

It never mattered what you did around them when they got bored. Ignore them, they got mad and made things worse. Break and it’d only encourage them to make things worse. ‘Fighting back’ never even ranked as an option.

Well, you aren’t at the Farm anymore.

It feels like the world around you moves in slow motion, as you push forward, fists raised. Chelsea brings her knee up between Shawn’s legs and he drops her, wheezing. He’s completely unprepared for your punch to connect with his nose. There’s a sharp crack, sending him reeling to the ground.

“‘UCK! ‘ou ‘ock ‘ucker!” Shawn pulls a hand away from his face, blood streaming down as he staggers to his feet. You don’t give him time to recover, landing a punch below the solar plexus before he can get his guard up. Winded, he staggers backwards. When you follow up by smashing his head against the side if the building there’s a pained groan and the man slides down into a crumbled heap.

Kicking him to the ground, before you can do anything else a hand grabs your shoulder that pulls you back. “Hey, hey! Alex. Alex, it’s okay, it’s over.”

You tense up and let Chelsea pull you away. “Asshole.” You spit in the direction of Shawn’s crumpled form.

“Hey, no argument from me there, Chickadee. Now let’s beat it before somebody calls the cops.”

The two of you gather the bags – you make a point of collecting the strawberries – and make a break for it. You tuck your bloody fist under your armpit to hide it. Another bloody sweatshirt? You really need to stop ruining your clothes like this.

The two of you don’t slow down your pace until well over half way home. You can tell by how the new construction starts to give away to the pre-disaster architecture; buildings in a perpetual patchwork state of repair jobs. You glance over to Chelsea, walking along side you. Her expression dark. “W–w–who was that?”

“Just a jerk of an ex. Nobody important.” Chelsea sighs. “I thought I told you to go back to the apartment?”

“Are you c–c–crazy? He was one giant red flag. I w–wasn’t going to– going to let you walk off with him alone.”

“I had him handled.” Chelsea retorts, you can practically feel her pushing down the self-doubt at the notion. “Shawn’s always been a chump. That’s why he needed me around.” The two of you walk in silence for a moment as Chelsea thinks.

A man clad in only a pair of shorts and sneakers jogs downs the sidewalk, the two of you pulling to the side to let him pass. “¡Buenas tardes, chicas!” He waves and flashes a smile but doesn’t slow down.

The two of you look at each other. You break into giggles first. That was random, and dumb, and just… it was nice. For once you were seen and it felt nice.

You can feel some of the anxiety lift from Chelsea too. See the way her shoulders loosen up. “Well… it _was_ satisfying to see him crumple like a used tissue.”

“Is… is he going to be a problem again, you th–think?”

“Hmm.” Chelsea shakes her head, “Maybe, but I doubt it, bless his heart.” She glances at you, “You were a right terror back there. That’s the second time now I’ve had to pull you off of someone.”

“I… I know I d–don’t sound it but… I can handle myself too.” A lot better than she can, you don’t add.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better at any rate.”

“Mm.” You nod, trying to ignore the impulse to eat another strawberry as your arm itches.

“Have you…” Chelsea’s voice is low, cautious, “–thought any about what you want to do now? Or long term?”

“W–what I want to do…?” You avoid her face, focus on the path in front of you. What do you want to do? “I–I–I don’t know.” Punching and spying are kind of your only skillsets, and there’s not a lot of call for them outside of the very place you just escaped from. Would they leave you be if you just… did your ‘job’ on your own? That feels hard to believe.

“It’s okay not to know…” You can feel the ‘but’ forming in her mind. “But–” there it is “–you should give it some thought.” A bitter laugh erupts beside you and Chelsea shakes her head. “Don’t end up like me. Absolutely do not recommend.”

You chew at your cheek, not sure how to respond to that one. Is there a nicer person in the world than Chelsea Becker? You doubt it. “Y–you… um, you seem pretty great to me?”

Chelsea stops in her tracks and for a moment panic surges through you. Did you say something wrong? Where did you screw up? Then you see the expression on Chelsea’s face, she raises a bag-laden hand to rub at her eyes. “That’s uh– that’s real nice of you say, Chickadee.”


End file.
